


fire

by kehlee



Category: Rent - Larson
Genre: M/M, except not really your dick, oops i slipped and fell on your dick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-23
Updated: 2014-02-23
Packaged: 2018-01-13 13:04:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1227442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kehlee/pseuds/kehlee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>mark is your typical lonely freshman at some crappy bonfire party.</p>
            </blockquote>





	fire

**Author's Note:**

> written at one in the morning when i'd just gotten home from a shit party and was thoroughly disappointed with life. i embodied my high expectations for my own life in this fic. a review would be gggggrrrreat.

one minute, his eyes are staring, locked on flickering flames encircled by rocks, embers rising up alongside its brother, smoke, which tangles with the scent of tobacco smoke, and the boy sitting beside him puts out his cig under his boot. the boy's eyes flicker in the moonlight and firelight alike and now mark can't focus his eyes on the fire, rather, this boy's angular face, which is young but looks aged and weathered and tired. an electric guitar hums from somewhere, and the boy beside him begins to muse aloud, a grumble low and rumbling in his silken voice, “i could do better.”

mark's fingers twitch, and one of his brows lift upward. the boy nods so slightly that the only way it is made noticeable is by the way the shadows align on his cheek, which mark is studying with internal vigor. “you would think he's never heard of a chord progression in his life.” mark's eyes cast downwards on an ember as it lands on a needle of pinestraw, which surprisingly doesn't go up in flames. 

“haha,” he laughs, short and weak. translucent blond eyelashes flutter upward to lock on-- green, he believes, but can't quite tell-- and the boy beside him speaks low, his voice deep for his age. 

“you always wear that same scarf?” he asks, but it's not so much a question as it is something the kid's noticed. mark thinks to himself for a second and suddenly realizes that yes, he does always wear that same scarf, and does this boy go to my school and notice my scarf or something because that would be cool. 

wait. he nods. “yeah, it's just my thing.” 

“hm.”

a silence falls around them, spare the crackle of burning wood in front of them and autumn's bugs (quieter than summer but still, unfortunately, present) humming, and mark remains moderately casual and calm despite his ceaseless discomfort in the silence beside the boy with the moonlight and fire in his eyes. 

“you a freshman?”

mark nods. the boy nods in return, playing it off as a i-could-tell-by-looking type of thing, when mark hears it in a way that is so much more interested in his personal being. or perhaps the smoke is making him drowsy (true) or his migraine is coming back (false). “i could tell,” there it is. “and all that jazz. i'm a junior.” a beat. “you've lived here all your life?”

he goes to answer the question when he's interrupted by a boy with cheekbones and brown hair offering the junior boy a bottle of beer, followed by the cheekbone boy instantly eyeing mark and deciding he's too young for any of that fun and also he only brought one bottle, sorry (or something like that) and so mark shrugs it off. junior boy takes a swig and waves off cheekbone boy, who lifts a brow and shoots a glance in mark's general direction. mark isn't sure what's happening, so he spaces out by staring at the redhot of the fire until junior boy speaks up again, blond hair catching shadows and light all at once.

“what was i saying, again?” he muses to himself. “oh. yeah. all your life?”

mark nods. “bit of a recluse, as my mom calls it.” cerulean downcasts onto night's crest which rests on the crunchy leaves that have only just begun to fall. “she thinks i'm antisocial.”

“i think so, too,” he agrees. “i mean, i've never seen you with your friends.”

the boy comes off strong. he pulls out another cigarette and his lighter, lighting it up and then blowing a puff of smoke into the air. by now, he's completely neglecting the alcohol at his feet. mark stands up from the chair he's sat in, and junior boy snaps, “no, don't go. i'm not done chatting to you.”

so that decides that-- he is interested. mark purses his lips. “hm?”

“you got nice eyes.” 

“just the lighting,” mark replies shortly, but carries on. “yours, too.”

“shame you gotta wear glasses all the time.”

“i guess.”

a pause. 

“are you gonna sit?”

mark once again lifts a brow, and the boy tempts him very briefly to take a seat on his lap. politely denying that privilege he's been offered, he takes a seat beside him but leans closer to him, staring again. he's gorgeous in an unconventional way, features accentuated by the moonlight and junior boy sighs a little. “i was hoping that you'd be more assertive,” he emphasizes the 'assertive' to emphasize the disappointment. mark, in turn, sighs in response. assertive is not his forte. “but that's alright.”

“what'd'y' mean?” 

the boy once again beckons him to sit on his lap. this time, mark does not deny himself this simple pleasure—he doesn't know anybody here, so why does it matter—and takes a nimble seat on the gorgeous junior boy's lap, arms lacing around his neck to hold him in place. the boy's arms mimic that by entwining around his waist, and the boy demands their lips press together and all of a sudden, with no explanation, mark is kissing a stranger at a party who tastes like smoke and the taste you get in your mouth when you haven't eaten in a good while. 

suddenly, his hands are fisting through the boy's hair and his tongue is diving into the boy's mouth and their unexplained kiss is broken and mark is staring at him, face contorting to fully express his confusion and pleasure and interest. who kisses a boy they just met? apparently this junior does. his brows furrow, and his fingers, which now rest on the jagged jawline of the boy's, drum idly against his milk-white skin. mark opens his mouth to speak but instead it is captured in an instantaneously deep kiss, all spit and tongue and rough boy, and he's not so upset that it started awkward because beautiful junior boy is cute and is kissing him and he's fine with that.

lips meet his skin, right in the crook where his jaw becomes his neck and he sighs as the boy's saliva-wet lips leave a peck there. mark's nose aligns with the boys briefly after the neck-kiss and he is shortly after pulled into another kissing session in which hands on his waist become hands under his shirt, cool and warm all the same, pleasing him and stressing him out at the same time. so he breaks a kiss to shake his head a little.

“why not?” comes a dreamy voice, drunk off affection and a kiss to his cheek real quick, snuck after a slightly somber note. 

“don't even know your name,” he mutters in reply, and the boy shakes his head and moves for another kiss and mark forgets why he was so concerned, drowning in junior boy's glorious affection. hands are all over, but never in anywhere too deeply inappropriate (this boy clearly respects the boundaries of making out with a stranger) which mark is both thankful for and bothered about. after a moment, cheekbone boy returns and the boy mark is atop of waves him off. disappointment ensues as junior boy sashays away with cheekbone boy. he isn't certain whether this is temporary or permanent, but shame rages through his chest.

mark decides he'll walk home now, since his home isn't too far from here. his mind stirs worrisomely but his exit is extremely easy—nobody knew he was there much in the first place, so he cuts through a neighbor's yard which sports rose bushes clinging to their yellow-painted house and a woman watching out the window as he steps on some flower and his heart is racing because of events and because some woman might come out and yell at him so he decides that perhaps running is a better idea. 

he keeps at running until he's collapsed on his bedroom floor, now coming off a high from his interesting experience, and he goes to strip out of his jeans when a little folded paper falls from the back of his jean pocket with a flap noise, and mark bends to pick it up.

“roger davis  
9345871265”

he wouldn't be surprised if he fell asleep with a smile on his carpeted floor.


End file.
